


What Peterick Taught Andy

by FlashFlashFlash



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Andy gets deep at the end, Boyfriends, Comfort, Fluff, Illness, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Patrick is vegetarian, Peterick, Sickfic, Trohley - Freeform, Vomiting, folie à deux era, idk it's pretty long, maybe only a little bit proofread, sick!patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11530839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: Sometimes when vegetarians and vegans eat animal matter again after a long time, it makes them sick. Patrick thinks this has happened to him, but Pete just thinks he's stubborn and won't admit that he's got gastroenteritis. Andy and Joe serve as reinforcements, and Pete couldn't be more grateful; he doesn't realise what he's taught Andy, and that's the beauty of ignorance.





	What Peterick Taught Andy

**Author's Note:**

> This took a while, but, bear with me! Next up is another installment of Anaemic!Patrick, for all of you who are awaiting it.   
> Author x

It's no more than one in the morning when Patrick slumps out of bed and staggers toward the ensuite bathroom. Pete lies sleepily in his wake, a little dazed, and barely awake, but painfully aware of his boyfriend's absence. Their bedroom had been inhabited little recently, due to their tour (there was more than one reason they always played more than one show in Chicago- nights at home were to be treasured like gold dust), yet still the sheets (left unwashed when they'd locked up on their last morning at home prior to the tour) smelled like Patrick's shampoo, and sex, wonderful, wonderful, sex at all times of day. Soft and slow or hard and fast, it didn't matter in the aftermath, because, as long as the sheets still smelled like Patrick's orgasm and hot, heavy breathing, Pete couldn't care less what the non-existent metronome had been set to. Pete nuzzled at Patrick's pillow, relishing in his scent, until he picked up an unusual quantity of sweat, and threw himself round to face the bathroom, where Patrick had disappeared.

"Babe? Why're you'p?" Pete mumbles, his words blending together into a short, yet no less intelligible, mess. 

"'M sick," Patrick groans. Pete thinks he can see the soles of his fluffy-socked feet in the twenty centimetre gap between the door and the frame. "Think I've got-"  
Patrick gags loudly, and Pete scrambles, on his hands and knees, towards the bathroom. Patrick's gagging grows a little louder, but then there's a relieved silence, just as Pete closes his left arm over Patrick's back. "Food poisoning. I think I've got food poisoning." 

"Are you gonna be okay?" Pete asks, plucking one of Penny's dog hair from the sleeve of Patrick's over sized T-shirt/nightgown. Patrick burps, and then there's vomit splashing in the toilet, enough for Pete to assume it's everything in Patrick's digestive system. He thinks he's right for a few seconds, while Patrick just pants, sat in a position that reminds Pete of a sitting dog with sore joints, head suspended over the toilet. Then, Patrick vomits again, and Pete shudders. 

"I feel like shit," Patrick groans, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and closes his eyes. "I had some pasta at the PR meeting today, and I don't think it was as vegetarian as they said. It tasted too rich, and you know how sick lard makes me." 

"Yeah," Pete smiles sympathetically when Patrick chokes up another round of lumpy stomach contents. "Oh, honey," he soothes, pulling Patrick's trembling body up against his. Upon slowly opening his eyes, Patrick catches sight of his own vomit, and retches dryly. "Hey, don't look at it," Pete flushes the toilet hastily, but Patrick's face is disappearing inside the porcelain bowl again before the excess water has drained away. 

Sitting back on his heels, back of his hand pressed to his mouth, Patrick looks exhausted. His skin is worryingly pale, yet overcome with shades of green that don't look natural to Pete. He exhales slowly, bringing his arm back down to his side, tears brimming and bottom lip wobbling. Wordlessly, Pete pulls him into his chest, shielding his head from the world with a strong hand. Patrick chokes on his own breath a few times, and his hiccups come approximately every fifteen seconds. 

"Are you gonna be sick again, or do you think you can lie down now?" Pete rubs his hand up and down Patrick's side. 

"I wanna go back to bed," Patrick's making these little gasping noises like his chest is too tight, but Pete just kisses his head and tries to calm him down. "I'm gonna be sick again, though." 

"Okay, okay," Pete shuffles them forward and does a little rearranging so that Patrick's got one knee either side of the toilet, and his arms creating a little bridge over the toilet bowl for him to rest his forehead on. His skin is hot like the time he got sunstroke at Pete's mom and dad's garden party, when the evening ended in Pete holding his hair back as he leant over a bucket, Mrs Wentz dabbing at his forehead with an ice pack all the while. "You're really warm, babe. I'm gonna get the thermometer." 

Pete tries the find a thermometer while Patrick groans into the toilet bowl and makes sounds that Pete recognises as dry heaving. He also tries to find a stomach settler of some kind, but there's only aspirin, and antihistamine, as well as an array of half full bottles, the presence of which have no explanation. Pete can't recall himself or Patrick ever having tonsillitis. 

"I'm gonna call Joe to bring us a thermometer and something for your stomach," Pete says, heading back into the bedroom to get his phone. He resettles beside Patrick when he's dialled the number, as Patrick makes a vomiting noise that Pete thinks could render him unable to talk for a few days. Joe picks up on the fifth ring. 

"What do you want, Wentz?" He sounds tired, like he's just woken up, and understandably so, as the clock on Pete's phone reads 01:34. 

"I need you to do me a massive favour," Pete hopes Joe won't just hang up. In the background, he can hear Andy waking up. "Patrick's really fucking sick, and I need you to go buy me some stuff from the twenty-four hour pharmacy." 

"I thought he looked a little peaky earlier. What's wrong with him?" Joe perks up a little, sounding concerned. Patrick vomits again. "Andy, dude, get your shoes on, we're going to the store." 

"He's throwing up loads," Pete rubs Patrick's back. "And I think he's got a fever, so I need you to get a thermometer. He said he thought it was food poisoning, but I'm not so sure."

"We're on it," Joe says. "We'll be there in, like, half an hour." 

The phone line goes dead. 

Eventually, Patrick, with Pete's help, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and slumps back into bed, curling himself inwards against Pete's front. They lie in comfortable silence, neither asleep, the light still burning in the ensuite. 

"I feel so nauseous, I can't even begin to tell you," Patrick moans after a few minutes, ten, maybe. "It's like when my brother used to spin me around loads and then blame me if I threw up on the carpet, but worse." 

"Are you dizzy?" Pete pets Patrick's hair.

"Like fuck I am," Patrick puffs out. "This is God punishing me for that one time I laughed at Joe's hangover." 

"Hmmm," Pete tries to breathe in Patrick's smell, but he catches a whiff of strong mint and sour vomit.   
"Try get some sleep," he mumbles, already dozing off. "Joe can let himself in." 

Joe does let himself in, around forty minutes later. He and Andy creep up the stairs, a paper bag from the local all-night pharmacy in Joe's hand. Andy knocks on the master bedroom door lightly. 

"Hey, you guys in here? Can we come in?"

Pete struggles to wake up again, and he can't untangle himself from Patrick's grip of fitful sleep. He makes a strangled noise as he finally releases himself and fights through the duvet to sit up. He flicks his bedside lamp on. 

"Come in," Pete instructs, his voice laden with sleep and a desire to experience more of it. The bedroom door lock clicks , and Andy pushes his head in as it creaks open. He sees Patrick laid on his front, sweating uncontrollably, first, then locks eyes on Pete, sleep-deprived and aching as usual. 

"We brought the stuff," he offers, pushing the door as far open as it'll go, revealing himself and Joe in full. "How's he holding up?"

"Okay, I guess," Pete frowns at his unconscious boyfriend. "He hasn't thrown up again, but he's not sleeping well."

"Wake him up, and we'll take his temperature," Joe perches himself on the end of the bed. Pete nods solemnly.

"Hey, babe," he puts one hand on each of Patrick's shoulders as Andy unpacks the thermometer. He shakes lightly. "Wake up, babe, we need to take your temperature," Patrick coughs quietly, signalling that he's awake, and Pete pulls him onto his back. "How're you feeling?" 

"'M gonna throw up," Patrick's body jumps into action as he scrambles to sit up, but his mind is weighted down with lethargy, making his movements random, erratic. Pete pushes him back against the headboard, so he's supported, and cradles his face with a hand. "Pete, a bucket, get a bucket," Patrick panics, fear in his eyes. Pete doesn't have time to get a bucket, but that's okay, because Patrick isn't sick again. Nobody says anything, but Andy rubs his back and Pete holds his hand, while Joe scurries off to fill the empty glass on Patrick's bedside cabinet with water in the bathroom. The room is silent for a while afterwards, bar Patrick's gasping breaths and rolling tears as Pete strokes his hair, kissing his sweaty cheek over and over. 

When Joe gets back, Andy takes the thermometer to Patrick's mouth, slipping it under his tongue and holding it in place when he gags around it. Pete puts his nose in the crook of Patrick's neck, whispering sweet nothings while Joe sets the glass back on the bedside table before unpacking the stomach settling pills. Patrick's blue doe eyes plead release from Andy's strong grip around his jaw. The thermometer beeps, and Patrick can't spit it out fast enough. 

"One-oh-two-point-five," Andy sighs. He takes the pill box from Joe and studies the back, as Joe gets out the fever reducer. "You think you can take these?" Patrick didn't puke when he woke up, but he did puke when the pills touched his tongue and he had to scramble from the bed on his hands and knees, leaving Pete stunned, with a banged head from the headboard. He coughed the little pink pills and some stomach acid into the bowl, letting his bottom lip drip and his throat burn. He groaned as Pete helped him to take a sip of water, but he was glad that there was something for him to throw up when his stomach convulsed and the back of his throat tugged. "I'll take that as a 'no', then."

"Fuck off, Andy," Patrick spits. His head droops. 

"This is going to be an interesting night," Pete sighs. 

-

When morning comes, Joe and Andy are asleep in the guest room, just through the wall of the master bedroom. The eleven o'clock sunshine beams through the window left with curtains not drawn, warming their tired faces, thick skin shining. The ruffle of bedsheets as routine pulls Andy from his slumber is quiet, but as defined as the curls of Joe's hair. 

"You up?" Andy whispers, eyes fluttering open. The reply comes in the form of Joe's light snore. Smiling to himself, Andy untangles their limbs, carefully edging himself off of the bed. He looks around the walls before he stands, and at the picture on the bedside cabinet of Pete and Patrick kissing in the snow outside Patrick's mom's house. Their arms, clad in thick, waterproof coats, enclose them in a whirlwind of snowflakes and love, lust like Andy never thought could be captured in a photograph. Love like that, Andy had been taught by the days locked up in the van watching them giggle in the rear view mirror, the hotel nights that made him wish he was deaf as the headboard banged against the other side of the wall, the phone calls like the one last night, full of worry and the sound of a hammering heart because Patrick was sick, and, oh, God, Pete couldn't possibly function without his smile. It was Pete and Patrick that taught Andy how to love Joe and his devilish grin, and last night had been Andy's way of repaying them. 

He sleepily made the short journey from the guest room to the master, slightly relieved upon seeing the door had been left open, signalling that the couple were awake; Andy didn't want to be responsible for waking up Pete Wentz. Faint murmurs of speech could be heard. 

"I don't feel good, Pete," a whispered whine creeps past the open door. "My back hurts." 

"Oh, Patrick, baby," the soft tones of compassion break the silence. "Do you still feel sick?" 

"Only a little. I think I'll be able to keep my water down."

There's a silence, and then Andy feels as though he maybe isn't needed, but then he remembers the way that Patrick suffers in silence all the time. He remembers the quiet of the old van when only Pete knew that Patrick's motion sickness was out of control, the stiffness of a sick boy singing on stage, and the exhausted eyes at the end of a long day in the studio that, despite themselves, asked only for a glass of room temperature water.

Andy knocks on the white gloss-painted wood, gently. 

"Come in," Pete calls. On the other side of the door, his eyes flick up from Patrick to Andy, laden with a lack of sleep. He's sat up against the headboard, Patrick straddling his lap with his head bowed onto his chest. "Morning," he says over the top of the fluffy hair. 

"Hey, how's it going?" 

"More vomiting, a fever spike around five, cramps, headaches, more vomiting, then a bit of fainting," Pete lists, rubbing Patrick's back. "We've muddled through, though. We were both asleep by seven." 

"You don't really need me, do you?" Andy laughs. Patrick groans, and Andy keeps quiet.

"I've changed my mind, I think I'm gonna be sick again," Patrick pants. 

"You've nothing left in you to puke, babe," Pete frowns. 

"Wrong!" Patrick claps a hand to his mouth, and, gagging, scampers off to the bathroom. Andy makes eye contact with Pete and he sees those tires eyes begging for forgiveness for whatever it is that has brought this upon him, but, behind that, he sees something else; he sees an undeniable desire to be with the young man vomiting in the bathroom, no matter the circumstances, whatever the weather, in every sense, and, as he breathes out a heavy, "don't worry, I'm coming", he sees the love that taught him to love, knowing that, even if Patrick is still making unimaginable noises over the toilet, everything will be okay.


End file.
